


Handle with Care

by menel



Series: Under the Black Light [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: Caring and Sharing, Developing Relationship, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chasing down footless criminals and helping out former Army buddies? It’s just another day for two Deputy U.S. Marshals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handle with Care

**Author's Note:**

> What began as a standalone fic appears to have transformed into a series. Typical. This one’s an episode tag to 4x06 Foot Chase. If there's a third installment, there's sure to be sex.

Tim’s got a headache by the time he and Mark part ways. He’d dropped his friend off at a bar and Mark had tried to cajole him into having a drink but Tim had politely declined. Mark probably thought Tim was pissed at him for lying about the circumstances surrounding his oxy ‘debt.’ And yeah, Tim was a little peeved but in reality he’d come to expect that sort of thing from Mark, which was a sad admission on its own. It’s not that Mark was a screw-up, though that was the impression he must’ve given folks he met these days. When they’d served together, Mark had been a guy he’d depended on, had trusted with his life. Mark was a capable soldier. He followed orders to the letter and was a lot of fun to hang around when they had time to shoot the breeze. But once you took him out of that context, he was a different guy. It was a sad but familiar story. 

Tim didn’t believe in the either-or-fallacy, but when it came to veterans, maybe it was true. Since he’d been discharged from the Army, he’d only encountered two types. There were those for whom the regimented life of the military had been drilled into their blood. Tim fell into that category. It explained his OC-tendencies, his need for order, the way he gravitated towards strong leadership, and the fact that he couldn’t get up later than 6:30am after Ranger school. That sort of discipline could translate well into civilian life and it was no coincidence that a large percentage of former military personnel found themselves in law enforcement of some kind. Tim was a regular statistic. 

His situation was about as happy an ending as most former military could expect (which is not to say that Tim didn’t have serious issues of his own. He did). But then there was the second type of veteran, the type that Mark was representative of (and Colton too, Tim suspected). These were the guys who couldn’t or didn’t want to carry over that discipline into civilian life once the war was over; guys who had been too damaged by their experiences – physically, emotionally and psychologically – to be able to function normally again. What the hell was normal anyway when they’d seen what they’d seen, done what they’d had to do? These were the guys who turned to drugs and by extension, crime, to dull the pain; the ones who’d live at the bottom of a bottle to make themselves forget. Tim could’ve gone that way; it would’ve been easy. So, while he may have been a little pissed at Mark, he was sympathetic too. 

What all veterans shared was the experience of combat. Unless you’d served, you couldn’t relate, you couldn’t understand. Tim wasn’t immune to that alienation. He just hid it better than most. That is, until Raylan Givens had been transferred to the Lexington office. Tim had been attracted to him immediately. He still remembered how Raylan had walked into the office that first day; how Nelson, who had been on his way out, had actually turned his head to give Raylan another look. In Nelson’s position, Tim would’ve done the same. Raylan Givens was a head turner. Instead, Tim had been on the phone but he’d tracked Raylan across the floor, noting the boots, the walk, the slight cant of the hips and most of all, the Stetson. Who the hell could get away with wearing a Stetson these days? He’d watched as Art had come out of his office to meet him. It turned out that he and Raylan were old friends from when they’d both taught firearms training at Glynco. But Raylan’s smile had been a little strained, his stance a little tense. It was plain that he saw Kentucky as punishment for his actions in Miami. He’d do his penance, play nice as much as he was able, and when the heat blew over, he’d be transferred back to where he’d rather be. At least, that’s how Tim thought things would play out. It turned out that Raylan often did the opposite of what was expected of him. It also turned out that his roots in Harlan County ran much deeper than anyone knew. Even if he had left the place years ago, there were some places that you could never really leave. Kin counted for everything in Harlan, and Raylan was still one of their own. 

Tim pulled out his mobile. Raylan’s number was on his speed dial. It had eventually overtaken Art’s number and moved to the top of the list. He was sitting in his SUV outside the bar where he had dropped Mark off. Although he’d turned down Mark’s offer for a drink, he could really use one, he was just after different company. His thumb hovered over Raylan’s name. It felt a little needy calling him like this, but that insecurity battled with the half that argued _What? You can’t call a colleague to have a drink with you?_ They weren’t the type to make plans. Tim would usually just turn up at the High Note if he felt like drinking and more often than not, Raylan would be there. But Raylan had spent all day in Harlan on his wild foot chase and Tim wasn’t even sure if he was back in Lexington. He really should give Raylan a call. Professionally. To check up on him. See how the whole Josiah mess had resolved itself. He was about to do just that when his phone began to ring and the caller ID that flashed on the screen made him grin. 

“You done playing footsie?” he asked by way of greeting. 

“Ha, ha. You and Art are just a barrel of laughs.” 

Tim’s grin grew a bit wider and he settled more comfortably in the driver’s seat. He liked hearing Raylan’s southern drawl in his ear. That rich voice usually went straight to his cock, but at other times, like tonight, it was the familiarity and smooth tone that he found comforting. 

“Your foot chase around Harlan County beats anything I had to do at work.” 

“Well, the next time a fugitive saws off their foot by their own volition or for the purposes of abduction, I’ll be sure to ask you to join me.” 

“Got lonely on your mystery hunt?” 

“Nah, Shelby kept me company.” 

Tim fell silent. He’d gotten used to being Raylan’s back-up, even if it meant waiting at the foot of a damn hill while Raylan went off to visit folk with reputations straight out of a slasher horror movie. 

“It wasn’t the same as having you around,” Raylan added. 

Tim cleared his throat. “You still in Harlan?” 

“Yeah, just wrapping things up. The Sheriff’s office has Josiah in custody. Still alive if you can believe it. Thought he would’ve bled out for sure. The fellows that had him were trying to cauterize the wound with a blowtorch when we caught them.” 

“Just another day in the office.” Tim could practically feel Raylan’s smile at the other end. “What time do you think you’ll get back here?” 

“Actually, I thought I’d stay in Harlan. Head back in the morning.” 

Tim nodded even though Raylan couldn’t see it. It made sense. It was a long drive back to Lexington and it was getting late. When he spoke again, he was careful to hide any disappointment in his voice. “All right, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Hey, Tim.” 

“Yeah?” 

“You all right?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“You sound . . . you don’t sound like yourself.” 

So much for hiding his disappointment. Tim should be mildly disconcerted that Raylan could read him so well even without visual cues, but instead he’s relieved that Raylan’s been paying attention. 

“I was about to call you,” he admitted. “But you beat me to it. Didn’t feel much like drinking alone.” 

“Huh.” Raylan sounded thoughtful. “I’ll grab a bite to eat first but I can be in Lexington in about an hour.” 

“Raylan, you don’t –” 

“Make sure you have some good bourbon on you and we’ll call it even. And Tim?” 

“Yeah?” 

“If you’re serious about me moving in, I should probably know where you live.” 

Tim sucked in a sharp breath. This was the first time Raylan had brought up his offer since he’d made it two days ago. Bringing it up didn’t mean that Raylan was accepting it, but it did mean that the offer was still on the table. His mind was in a whirl. Raylan was picking up way too much. Not only had he invited himself over to Tim’s place but he’d somehow figured out that Tim didn’t feel like socializing tonight; that while he wanted to drink, he was after Raylan’s company specifically and privately. And hell, that assessment was spot on. 

Tim wasn’t about to argue. He rattled off his address, hung up the phone, put the SUV into gear and drove home, stopping by a liquor store on the way to get ‘some good bourbon.’

* * * * *

Raylan turned up at his doorstep a little over an hour later, leaning against the doorjamb in a way that Tim had long thought should be criminal.

“Hey,” was his greeting. 

“Hey,” Tim said in reply. “ _Mi casa es tu casa_ ,” he said, holding the door open and stepping aside. 

“You’d do all right in Miami if your Spanish is better than mine,” Raylan commented as he walked in. 

“High school Spanish is passable?” Tim asked, shutting the door and following Raylan inside. 

“So long as all the curse words are part of the vocabulary,” Raylan replied, heading straight for the table where Tim had left the bottle of ‘good bourbon.’ There were actually two bottles. In a rare moment of indecision he’d bought one classic, one artisanal. 

“Your call,” he said with a shrug when Raylan shot him an inquiring look. “You want the grand tour first?” 

“Later,” Raylan told him, picking up the bottle of Maker’s 46 (artisanal then) and the two tumblers that Tim had put out. “I think we’ve both earned this.” 

They wound up in the sofa in the living room, where Raylan put the bottle on the coffee table and proceeded to pour approximately two ounces into each glass before passing the other glass to Tim. Then he sat back, seemingly melting into the sofa as he sipped his bourbon. His Stetson was on the coffee table beside the bottle. Tim envied the way Raylan could sprawl anywhere. Until he’d met the other man, he didn’t think ‘sprawling’ could be elevated to the level of an art form. As for himself, he was sitting sideways on the sofa, his back against the sofa’s arm, one leg tucked underneath him, and his left arm stretched along the sofa’s back. This was about as comfortable as he could get and it had the added advantage of providing him the best view of Raylan’s profile. He balanced his glass of bourbon on his knee as he drank. 

“You hire an interior decorator or are you Martha Stewart’s secret love child?” Raylan asked after a while. 

“Neither,” Tim answered. “Got the place like this. Don’t really mind. It’s all very . . . calming.” 

Tim’s place was all clean lines, cream walls and neutral tones, furnished with dark accents here and there. It did look like an interior decorator had done their job because Lord knows Tim didn’t have a clue about what should go where or what matched with what. Just because he kept things neat and orderly didn’t mean he had a sense of _style_. 

“It’s got a woman’s touch,” Raylan agreed. “So,” he said, his tone changing. “I already told you about my day. The highlight reel version of it, anyway. Don’t suppose you want to tell me about yours?” 

“Hang on,” Tim said. “There are a couple of things that still don’t add up.” 

“Such as?” 

“Such as why was Josiah kidnapped to begin with?” 

“Because Arlo told his lawyer – the mastermind behind this particular idiocy – that Josiah was Drew Thompson.” 

“Any chance that he is?” 

“Arlo might as well be Drew Thompson at this point.” 

“Have you looked into that?” 

Raylan gave him a pained expression without actually adjusting his sprawl. _Art form_ , Tim thought again. 

“Where does that leave us then?” 

“Not very far from where we started.” Raylan sighed, finally lifting himself off the sofa to top off his glass. He held the bottle out to Tim who let his glass be topped off as well. “Josiah gave us another lead in the Amazing Drew Thompson Race. He said that if anyone knew where and who Drew Thompson was now aside from Arlo, it would be Hunter Mosely.” 

“Former Sheriff Hunter Mosely?” Tim clarified. “The one that was in bed with the mob and tried to kill you?” 

“That would be the one.” 

Tim laughed. “I can appreciate the joke. You gonna go see him?” 

“First thing tomorrow morning.” 

“I guess the game’s still afoot then.” 

Raylan groaned. “Really?” 

“Last one, I promise. Scout’s honor.” 

“You were a Boy Scout, huh? I’m not surprised.” 

“Eagle Scout, actually.” 

“Even better.” 

Raylan’s tone was slightly mocking, but Tim could easily see the affection in his eyes. 

“Since we’re doing the caring and sharing thing tonight, you wanna tell me about your day or you gonna keep avoiding it?” 

Tim found that his good humor had suddenly vanished and he stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. He was glad that Raylan had gone for the Maker’s 46. It burned on the way down like it should but then it mellowed out to a smooth pecan pie. Then Raylan’s hand was on his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said. 

It was precisely that comment and the fact that Raylan wouldn’t push that allowed the floodgates to open. And once Tim started, he just couldn’t stop. 

“An old army buddy called me today,” he began. “We served together in Afghanistan. His name’s Mark. He hasn’t been doing too well since we were discharged. His leg got tore up pretty bad over there and Vicodin wasn’t cutting it so he fell into an oxy habit to deal with the pain. He’s been clean for two months, going to meetings and stuff. But when he asked me to meet him after work today, I thought he’d fallen off the wagon.” 

“Did he?” 

“No. He wanted me to go with him when he went to visit his former dealer. Settle his debt and all.” 

“In other words, he wanted you to be a badass.” 

“You know how much I like flexing those biceps.” 

“That go all right?” 

“Mostly. Turns out Mark ripped the guy off, but he’s willing to wait to get back what’s owed to him . . . with interest.” 

“Sounds like a reasonable guy.” 

“After a little persuasion and a show of good faith, he’s not so bad as far as petty drug dealers go.” 

Tim didn’t want to think too hard about what he’d just said and judging by the amused look on Raylan’s face, Raylan was thinking the same thing. 

“Guess who Mark and I ran into at Veteran’s?” 

“Drew Thompson.” 

“Close, but no cigar. We saw Colton Rhodes.” 

Raylan’s brow furrowed as he poured himself one more ounce of bourbon. “That name sounds like it should mean something to me.” 

“Boyd Crowder’s new number two?” 

“Right. Long-haired fellow at the hills. Former military policeman, right?” 

“Yeah. You know what he called me?” 

Raylan shook his head. 

“Marshal Givens’ sidekick.” 

Raylan gave him an appraising look. “That didn’t get your panties in a twist, did it?” 

“No.” He grinned. “Believe it or not, I don’t mind being your sidekick.” 

“Like Tonto and the Lone Ranger.” 

“Something like that.” 

“I feel a ‘but’ somewhere . . .” 

Tim took a deep breath. There was a big ‘but’ all right, the ‘but’ that had been bothering him ever since he’d been with Mark and seen the spaced out mess that had been Colt. This was about facing one of his personal demons. 

“People like Mark and Colt,” he said slowly. “They’re like alternate versions of me. And when I see people like that, it’s like someone’s holding up a dark mirror. I was lucky that I wasn’t wounded too badly over there. And I know I have PTSD, but it’s manageable. You gotta cope, right? But sometimes it’s like . . . I mean, those guys . . . they . . .” 

“Hey.” 

Raylan’s hand was on his knee again. In fact, without Tim noticing it, Raylan had shifted over to his side of the sofa so that their legs touched and he could easily curl his hand around the back of Raylan’s neck if he wanted to. 

“You’re not them,” Raylan said. “This isn’t Wonderland and you’re not about to fall down the rabbit hole. Sure you’ve got issues – I always did wonder about the PTSD – but so does everybody. And you deal with your shit better than most people I know.” 

“’Cos repression’s so healthy.” 

“Don’t forget the happy trigger finger.” 

“Pot.” 

“Kettle.” 

Tim managed a grin. He was feeling lighter already. 

“The point is,” Raylan went on, the seriousness returning to his tone. “You’re okay even if it doesn’t always feel that way. And if you think you’re falling off the wagon – whatever the hell you think that wagon is – you’re not alone. You have people that care about you. _I_ care about you.” 

Tim could feel his breathing become slow and steady. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings, the way he got when he was in the field or on a mission. He was specifically aware of Raylan’s nearness, of the intensity with which the other man was looking at him. They hadn’t touched each other since the night Lindsey had taken off with Raylan’s stash and Tim recalled how Raylan had kissed him then. After how many sexual encounters, it was the first time they’d ever kissed. Did that mean that kissing was allowed now? Tim decided to find out as the hand near Raylan’s neck held Raylan in place as he leaned forward. He needn’t have worried. Raylan met him halfway. The kiss was slow, burning but smooth like the bourbon they could taste in each other’s mouths. Tim remembered how he would’ve been content to sit on a sofa and make out with the other man, and now what were they doing? On _his_ sofa, no less. He pulled away with a small chuckle. 

“Something funny?” Raylan asked, amused himself but obviously perplexed. 

Tim nearly blurted out that Raylan made him feel like a giddy hormonal teenager but some things you just needed to keep to yourself. “No,” he said, somehow schooling his features into their usual neutral mask. 

Raylan looked like he might call him out on his bullshit (affectionately, of course because Raylan certainly wasn’t pissed) but Tim didn’t give him a chance. 

“Remember that rain check?” 

“Sure.” 

“I’m cashing it in tonight.” 

Raylan nodded. He downed the last of his bourbon before putting the glass back on the table and then he stood up with that maddening grace. He held out a hand to Tim. Tim grasped it, finishing his bourbon as well before allowing Raylan to pull him to his feet. He doesn’t get up with the same grace. Wordlessly, he lead Raylan down the hallway to his bedroom. He'd save the grand tour for the morning. 

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Justified_ belongs to FX, Graham Yost and Elmore Leonard. No offense is intended, no profit is being made.


End file.
